


Bruised

by pants2match



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/F, Hickeys, Post-Lauren, References to 200
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pants2match/pseuds/pants2match
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d suggested a tattoo because it was easy, it was immediate, it was permanent. [canon divergence sometime after the lauren flashback]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised

**Author's Note:**

> JJ's POV until it's not.

There’s going to be tooth marks on her clavicles tomorrow and she couldn’t care less.

She’d lost weight, not enough to make her sickly, but just enough that the bones; the clavicles, the floating ribs, the ilium; jut more, begging to be tasted and savoured and soothed with hot, wet tongue and lips. She leaves the flesh red and raw and bruised because it’ll heal, it will all heal and she’ll be there to watch it.

Purple to red to brown to yellow to _nothing_ and she’ll start all over again.

—

She’s hot and wet and _alive_ against her fingers and she’s got them either side of her clit and she moves, a slow and purposeful rhythm until her thighs start to tremble and she pulls her mouth, drags it from her clavicle to the marred skin and _sucks_. She wants it to hurt. Pulls the skin past her teeth at the same pace she slips her fingers against her heated flesh.

The splitting inhale is music to her ears and she slows, almost comes to a halt until she keens and she starts up again, digging her teeth into the brand and she’s tempted to rip it off then and there. She sucks and glides and _grinds_. The thigh between her legs is quivering a rapid tremor and she knows she’s close.

She’s tempted to move, to coast down her body and make her come against her mouth, but she needs this, needs to flip the script, to pull a one-eighty on her perceptions and make it into something else, something _good_ — something she’ll see it in the mirror every morning and shiver, not at the thought of _him_ , but at the thought of _her_ , biting into it and making her scream.

She drags her fingers back up, pulls the middle one against her clit and she comes.

She _screams_.

Breathless and desperate.

And she coaxes her through it, laves against the the bites she’s left. She feels her heartbeat rapid beneath her breast. She breaths deep, once, twice, three times before she has her body under control again and releases the cotton sheets from her death grip. She pulls her up by her ass, hip-to-hip and grasps at her hair, pulling the sweat-drenched locks away from her face so she can see her, so _she_ can see _her_. See the way her checks are flushed vermillion, the way her lips are just as red and brilliantly swollen from her own tongue.

She’s tempted to kiss down her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders back to the brand but she doesn’t. She wants her to feel it, feel the current that runs between them hit the scalding flesh.

She shifts, pitches her weight to the side and sinks back into the mattress, tangling her legs through hers, and watches as she raises her fingers to her breast, skirting past the puckered areola to the brand, purple against pale flesh and tender to the touch.

The scar isn’t visible through the bruise, she can pretend, just for the moment, that it doesn’t even exist, that she was never dominated, never disfigured, that she was never his.

It used to mean she was his, that he’d taken her body, her life.

Now, it means she’s hers.

She’ll spend the rest of her life bruising that skin purple every night, and after long enough she’ll forget what it even looks like because she’s taken it away, claimed that patch of flesh as her own.

She’d suggested a tattoo because it was easy, it was immediate, it was permanent.

This way, she thinks, is much more fun.


End file.
